When a House Finch Sings

On my walk to work, I pass a stand of large evergreens abutting an abandoned lot, a former Kodak factory my colleague tells me. The lot is surrounded by a chain-link fence wearing a barbed-wire crown, a jail of twisted metal. He says that there are poisonous chemicals in the land now that will take years to clean up properly, toxic leftovers from manufacturing film. There is little sign of any cleaning being done. Mountains of steel, cement, and rubble on brown dirt; on a rainy day, tears falling on mud. All of it a lonely wasteland, somehow beautiful, an empty lot left orphaned by the digital age.

However, inside are signs of returning life. Green grasses press through gray cement, saplings tremble skyward, shaking like a newborn lamb, a squirrel finds shelter in a broken, rusty pipe. And birds sing.

In the evergreen stand, a male House Finch, deep red splashed over dull brown, alights onto an open branch, testosterone boiling, a single-minded purpose of a mate and offspring. He opens his conical bill, head back, throat vibrating, and emits a stunning series of warbles and whistles, steady tempo descending. His drab counterpart appears, male and female together, a promise of new life.

On this empty street, the song releases a cascade of childhood memories, a soundtrack to my reminiscence. Other avian music has a similar effect. The song of the Horned Lark takes me back to my farm, heat bathing fields of wheat and hay, desperate roots sucking dry dirt, dust twisters, shimmering haze on the horizon. The hoot of the Great Horned Owl moves me back into my childhood bedroom, lights out, crickets chirping, moonlight through the screened window reflected on a Jurassic Park poster, stacks of books, a baseball glove, and muted noise from the television down the hall.

The House Finch takes me to another place. A private gasp, I stop, my eyes closed, and let the nostalgia wash over me, my mind now back in Wheatley in the early 90's, my grandpa's backyard in a small suburb, mid-July, big hot sun beaming in a large blue sky, parents at the picnic table drinking coffee, discussing town gossip, church sermons, hard times; us kids running through a sprinkler, wet grass between our toes, lemonade on our laughing tongues, carefree.

The memory of my grandpa is so vivid. For a brief moment I forget his passing, the three years of his body failing, the dementia and the pain. Instead I remember Saturday mornings, feeling tiny in his big navy GM Pontiac as he drove us past the four corners where Talbot and Erie Street intersect, Chimney Swifts twittering overhead, electrical wires black with starlings, a right turn to the Car Barn for breakfast. Him and I would sit at the same table every week, he smiling at the waitress and conversing with his friends from the Odd Follows Lodge or the Wheatley Legion, me a child clasping a perspiring glass of cold orange juice surrounded by old age, getting lost in the deep voices of proud men and the smell of coffee, eggs and bacon, boisterous talks of unions and pensions, taxes, crop sales, sports, doctors appointments, wives and grandchildren, politics, and changing times.

After a drive down the old #3 highway along Lake Erie, we'd head back to Leroy Street and I'd spend the afternoon with my grandma, cleaning the house and watching the melodrama unfold in afternoon soap operas or television judges presiding over small-claims court, a breeze steadily breathing into the living room window past billowing white curtains, the distant sound of a lawnmower. I was always mesmerized by my grandparents' bird feeder outside their back door, a palette of primary colour: Blue Jays, cardinals, and goldfinches. Sometimes an Indigo Bunting or a Ruby-throated Hummingbird would fly in and I'd yell excitedly for my grandma to come look; she never once missed the bird.

In the backyard, away from the little shed I always found mysterious where my grandpa kept his tools, avoided for fear of a hornet sting, I watched the martin house he cleaned every year to stop the House Sparrows from moving in. Above, Purple Martins, true aerial acrobats, streaks of violet zipping here and there over the lawn, catching insects and darting back into their nest box; below, an American Robin hopping through the grass, a sudden lunge, a tug-of-war with an earthworm, a juicy morsel, the bird's brick-red breast feathers concealing the muscle, straining; and in the evergreen stand abutting the yard, a male House Finch singing and singing.

Then, a truck drives by and just like that, I'm torn from my memories, now fading; a pile of discarded McDonald's cups at my feet. I continue my walk to work and I'm happy for my childhood and simpler times. In the distance, I see skyscrapers, the CN Tower, a labyrinth of streets and highways, corporations, small business, diverse communities, and those crucial little pieces of protected natural land. Dizzying opportunities in a great city, I can't help but appreciate it all, this vastness that surrounds us, our constant struggle to leave a lasting impression, to better ourselves and our city, and the experiences that make us who we are, that connect us. I smile.

A day of blunders

No force in heaven or on earth could have brought anyone out into the monstrous weather of Saturday, March 13th in Toronto. A sensible (sane) human being would have taken one look at the weather forecast and hid in fear under warm covers, sanctuary, subsequent comfort and a content smile under a mountain of warm sheets, hours passing dreaming of a summer afternoon, green meadows, rainbow flowers, wet footprints evaporating on poolside flagstones, birdsong and cicadas.

Instead, Mark Field and I (for his sake, I will conceal his identity and call him Jeb from now on to protect him from mockery, and perhaps shame, from his family and friends) stumbled out into the morning grayness, two dopes with high hopes, the thought of new spring migrants tugging at the centre of their bodies, moving them forward against reason's will. Environment Canada predicted 30% chance of showers until 10a.m., then onto 90% by 10:01a.m., and then the y axis of the graph just wasn't high enough, percentages only going to 100, you see. We tried other weather stations to see if perhaps the dependable EC could be wrong, but all other reports just told readers to not be stupid and stay inside.

Our morning began with a missed bus. Heavy with gear, we ran toward the bus screaming out to the driver who, in seeing a fumbling pile of binoculars and galoshes approaching, looked back from his rear-view, eyes wide with horror, foot to the pedal, tires of the bus squealing sending exhaust and sharp stones into our faces as it peeled out of High Park station. Perhaps I exaggerate slightly but that's certainly how it felt. We trudged around High Park, waiting for the next bus that would eventually take us to our destination...or past our destination rather, as we missed our stop. We had arrived, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at Lambton Woods.

From a large bridge overlooking the park, we could see a trail next to the Humber River, which on any other day innocently winds through the park with calm, clear water where folks take peaceful canoe rides and Mallards rest on its surface, raising cups of tea to their beaks and discussing poetry. Today, the river looked like something out of a disaster film, brown raging waters filled with dead things and debris. I looked for destroyed homes floating by. Daring to overthrow science's studies of human intelligence, we decided, since we could see no other trails, to descend down a muddy rock-slide that seemed to connect to the river-abutting trail at its base. Our boots now weighed down by mud clumps and slashed by razor-sharp rocks, we finally were able to start birdwatching. Not even a starling was present.

Dedicated, we persisted. Eventually we found signs of life: a robin, a few chickadees and juncos, and 2 White-breasted Nuthatches. Our spirits rose infinitesimally. We saw Mallards and pigeons. We got colder. The sky grew more ominous. We grumbled. I felt something moving around in my rubber boot and figured one of my toes must have fallen off. I started to look in my pockets for paper and a pen to scribble down my will. Jeb searched his bag for a flare gun and rescue.

And then, we arrived at a spot that made the day at least somewhat worth the battle. A little oasis out of the wind where I immediately saw my first grackle of the year (second actually, but Jeb missed the first one I saw so I'll just pretend this was our shared first). House Sparrows and Mourning Doves abounded, both Hairy and Downy Woodpeckers popped out, giving a great size comparison, a Red-tailed Hawk flew over, my first Red-winged Blackbirds made an appearance, some Blue Jays flew through, and a Song Sparrow, bringing light to an otherwise dark day, lived up to its name and sang its heart out. The despondent dirge of the morning lifted for a time. A short time.

The weather decided to test us even more. After picking up a couple of American Black Ducks for our day list at a small pond at the park's north entrance (small pleasures), we took a break to have a coffee, a bite to eat, and to count our day list. The day list tally taking perhaps 3 seconds to complete, we took off for Humber Bay Park, a bizarre decision that only a deranged lunatic could possibly make. Rain falling in horizontal sheets, we dashed to the subway to catch another bus. The driver muttered something at us as we slopped off the bus, two wet rats on a death march toward the unforgiving swells and waves crashing against the lakeshore. Not a bird could be seen except a few mangled gulls struggling against fierce winds, sending bloody feathers in all directions.

Freezing rain like shards of broken glass pierced our faces and punctured our eyes, the salt of our tears burning raw skin. Rushing water raged at our ankles, a car was lifted off its tires and sucked into the maelstrom. I expected a cow to fly past in the wind but didn't see any. I may have heard a distant, terrified moo though. Still we fought onward. It may be that with these strong east winds, the ducks are taking shelter in the western bay, I suggested. I looked over my shoulder to see if the grim reaper was looming behind me. Then we reached the breaking point. That time where you finally realize what you're doing and where you are. Reality sets in and even the birds can't keep you going. You think to yourself, alright even I think this is crazy.

Standing between us and the next section of the park was a wide expanse of brown muck. Already sopping wet, we decided to try to cross it rather than swing back all the way around the trail we had just came from. Always the gentleman, I let Jeb cross first. Then, thinking my brain had finally snapped, Jeb started shrinking before my very eyes! Wait, not shrinking...sinking. I looked down and saw wet mud oozing over his boots. I pushed forward to try to lend a hand and found myself now sinking into the mud as well, a mad image entering my mind of a dog-walker sauntering through the park in the spring, tripping over the rib of one of our half-buried corpses, decaying faces still stuck in grotesque sneers, the dog beginning to chew at the fleshy remains of my skull. I took out my cell with plans of calling my mom to tell her I loved her before the mud went over my head, my hand still grasping the phone above the ground, its signal lost in the storm. By some miracle, we finally trudged through nature's death trap and dragged our bodies inch by inch back to the park's entrance.

Somehow, beyond belief, we managed to continue birding. Every atom in the universe was telling us to stop but my right hand was twitching for more year birds...and by golly we actually saw some. Our hands frozen to our binoculars, we found Trumpeter Swans, Long-tailed Ducks, Gadwall, Mallards and American Black Ducks, American Wigeon, Common Goldeneye, Bufflehead, Red-breasted Mergansers, and Herring and Ring-billed Gulls. Finally giving up, we made our way to the streetcar and called it a day, looking forward to the next chance to birdwatch, no situation too awful to ever stop the insanity.

Our day's list (in no discernible order):

Ring-billed Gull
Mallard
Canada Goose
Northern Cardinal
Blue Jay
Dark-eyed Junco
Black-capped Chickadee
European Starling
Rock Pigeon
Mourning Dove
Hairy Woodpecker
Downy Woodpecker
American Black Duck
Killdeer
House Sparrow
Common Grackle (FOY)
Red-winged Blackbird (FOY)
Song Sparrow
Red-tailed Hawk
Common Goldeneye
Gadwall
Trumpeter Swan
Mute Swan
Long-tailed Duck
Red-breasted Merganser
American Widgeon (FOY)

Total Species: 26

Running Year Total: 61 (pretty measly but I missed the month of January...didn't even birdwatch once during that month!)